


the merry-go-round of life

by fireblazie



Series: where's my back hug? [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Family Feels, Grim Reapers, Katsudon Bang 2017, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 14:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10249196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: It is 1998, and Yuri is dead.—In which Yuri is a ghost, and Yuuri and Viktor are the grim reapers assigned to help him cross over before his soul fades away into nothingness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> my first ever mini bang! thank you to everyone who encouraged me when i was having confidence issues
> 
> thank you to @sonatine for the beta and @tourloos for the art!

It is 1998, and Yuri is dead.

He knows because he is standing directly above his body, pale and unmoving against the stark white hospital sheets. Doctors and nurses crowd around his bed, frantically pushing at his chest, frantically blowing oxygen into his lungs, frantically pushing drugs into one of the tubes in his arm.

Around him, the monitors let out a lone, steady alarm. His heart rate plummets until it’s nothing but a flat, green line.

The attending physician moves away. Yuri had given him a lot of attitude, back when he’d been alive enough to do so. Part of him wonders if he’s relieved Yuri’s gone. But his lips are pressed into a thin, unhappy line, sweat dripping down his neck. His white coat lies haphazardly on the floor, where he’d flung it aside before taking over to do compressions.

“Time of death: 0545,” he mutters, stooping to pick up his coat before exiting the room. The rest of the medical team follows him out, giving Yuri an unobstructed view of his body.

Like this, it looks as though he’s merely asleep. He kneels and reaches an outstretched finger to poke his cheek. His hand goes through his face. It feels—cold. He stands back up and studies himself with a clinical eye.

“I’m—dead,” he says, testing the words out on his tongue. He thinks back to the books his grandfather used to read to him as a child. _Dead as a doornail_ , he remembers, and tentatively aims a foot at his corpse’s shoulder. Again, it passes through, and he winces and looks away.

Outside the window, the sky is gray, and the promise of snow lingers in the rolling clouds overhead. Moscow is just beginning to wake up, and Yuri suddenly realizes that eventually, they’re going to have to call—

_Grandpa._

He whirls around, quickly gaining his bearings and falling through the window. Hovering a few inches above the ground, he sets off in the direction of their small house. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, exactly, but he has to make sure his grandfather doesn’t find out. Jaw clenched, he takes off into a run.

“It would be faster to teleport,” a quiet voice says at his side, and Yuri jerks back, hissing.

“The hell are you?”

“Ah, I’m your guide.” The newcomer bows deeply. He’s pale with dark hair, and dressed in black from head to toe. He’s wearing a ridiculous hat. Despite himself, Yuri can’t quite fight back a shiver. There’s no need to ask where he’s meant to guide him to; it’s terrifyingly obvious.

“You—You can’t.” Yuri takes a step back. “I’m not. I’m not ready.”

“I know.” He smiles at him, kindly. “Most people aren’t.”

“No.” Yuri clenches his hands into tight fists. “I’m not—I’m not. I have to check on Grandpa, I—”

“I’ll go with you,” the man offers.

“Don’t you fucking take him too!” Yuri shrieks, and gets a soft laugh in response.

“It’s not his time yet, don’t worry. I’m just here for—” He gestures at Yuri, who resists the urge to shrink back.

“Yeah, well, _get in line, fucker_ ,” he spits out, and sprints away towards his home.

 

*

 

Grandpa is still sleeping.

Grandpa looks a little younger like this, the fine lines on his face smoothed out by slumber. His beard is neatly trimmed, dark grey hairs peeking out from beneath his blanket. Yuri fixates on the steady rise and fall of his chest. Grandpa is—was—everything. He’d raised him, given him everything he had when his own parents had failed to follow through.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Guess I’m just like my parents after all. Only good at one thing: leaving.”

He pads into the kitchen. Small and well-used, it’s always been his favorite room in the house. He recalls lazy afternoons spent making pirozhki and equally lazy evenings spent eating them, talking and huddling around the fireplace for warmth.

_Dead_. The word tastes strange, hard to swallow. He’s never been particularly religious, and he’s not sure what comes next. The likelihood of him outrunning his assigned _guide_ —he scoffs at the term, as though he’s going on vacation in a foreign country—is slim, although his guide appears laughably incompetent. He’d let Yuri run away from him, after all.

Although he could simply be biding his time. Maybe he’s just waiting for Yuri to be at his weakest, at his absolute lowest point before pouncing and spiriting him away to—well, wherever it was he was meant to go.

Yuri hopes it’ll be warm.

“This place is nice,” that same quiet voice says again. Yuri doesn’t jump. He _doesn’t_.

“I’m not going with you,” he says, and his self-proclaimed guide to the afterworld tilts his head to study him inquisitively. Yuri sits up straighter and meets him eye-to-eye.

“I can’t make you,” he admits, and that startles Yuri into sharp, sudden relief.

“You can’t?”

“Nope.” His guide smiles at him, eyes crinkling almost shut as he does so. “It's policy: ‘the soul must cross over freely and willingly.’ Why? Did you think I’d drag you away, kicking and screaming?”

Yuri scowls. “I’d like to see you—”

“Oh!” His guide abruptly stands up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself. You ran away so fast, I didn’t get a chance to.” He bows at a ninety-degree angle. “My name is Yuuri. I’m your guide.”

Yuri stares mutely at the back of Yuuri’s head before Yuuri straightens, smiling at him. Stupidly, Yuri can only say: “You can’t be Yuri. _I’m_ Yuri.”

“Ah…” Yuuri blinks at him, nonplussed. “Well.”

“Whatever.” Yuri crosses his arms over his chest. “You won’t be here long. I’m not crossing over, you can’t make me, so you might as well just leave.”

“But—” Yuuri begins, but Yuri’s attention shifts elsewhere. His grandfather, shuffling out of bed, cold feet burrowing into worn slippers. He crosses the room slowly and purposefully, not wasting a single movement.

The phone rings. Yuri’s eyes land on it with an unmistakable foreboding feeling. Yuuri grabs his wrist, clutching it tightly. His grip is unrelenting and his fingers are cold. Everything is cold, now.

“Yuri, we should go,” Yuuri whispers urgently, tugging at his arm, but Yuri’s world narrows down to that one, white telephone, ringing away on their kitchen counter.

Grandpa lifts the phone from the receiver, tangled cord swaying against his elbow. “Hello?” he croaks, voice rusty from sleep.

_No,_ Yuri thinks, frantic, watching his grandfather’s eyes widen in shock. _No. No._

The phone clatters to the floor.

 

*

 

The funeral is a modest affair, and it’s over very, very quickly. His grandfather stands for the entirety of it, tall and solemn, staring at Yuri’s tombstone with grief in every line of his body. Yuri lingers near him, unwilling to leave him alone to mourn.

“It’s not so bad, Grandpa,” he says, leaning casually against his own tombstone. _Yuri Lebedev_ , it says, _1982 - 1998._ “I mean. I’m still around. I can watch over you, isn’t that great? If anybody tries to mess with you, I’ll just haunt the shit out of them. Right?”

His grandfather continues to gaze at Yuri’s tombstone, unmoving. He’s always been a gruff sort of man, Grandpa, the sort that showed his affection in tiny gestures rather than in words. He would leave freshly baked pirozhki in lieu of spoken apologies, and would pick him up from school with a large umbrella on stormy afternoons instead of offering trite _I-love-yous._

_“Yurochka,_ ” Grandpa rasps, tears spilling down his face and into his beard. “Oh, my boy. My boy.”

Yuri isn’t crying. He isn’t, because dead people don’t cry. “Stop it,” he whispers, blinking furiously. “Don’t cry. Not over me. I was a lousy grandson. You deserved better.”

“That’s a lie.” Yuuri appears next to him and offers him a clean white handkerchief. Yuri swipes it out of his hands and scrubs violently at his face. “You were a wonderful grandson. He loved you very much.”

“Fat lot of good that does anyone.” Yuri blows his nose into the handkerchief just so he can hand it back to Yuuri covered with ghost germs. Yuuri accepts it and tucks it back into his pocket, unfazed.

“I mean it.” Yuuri smiles at him, that same slow, kind smile. Yuri wants to punch it off his face, mainly because he’s never known what to do with the kindness others directed at him, except when it came from Grandpa. “He loved you very much. You were everything to him. He’s been praying for you, you know. He wants to make sure you move on well. Are you ready?”

Yuri looks at his outstretched hand. Looks back at Grandpa, silently weeping at his grave.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

Yuuri’s smile fades into a perplexed frown. “What do you—”

“I’m not going with you.” Yuri crosses his arms over his chest. “And guess what? You can’t make me.”

Yuuri pales. “I don’t—”

“I’m. Not. Going. With. You.” Yuri punctuates each word with a step in Yuuri’s direction. Forget that Yuuri’s taller and wider than him. He’s got this in the bag. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? _The soul must cross over freely and willingly._ Well, guess what? This soul isn’t doing it. I’m not going. I’m not leaving his side.” He bares his teeth in a snarl. “Got it?”

Yuuri gulps. “Got it.”

 

*

 

Yuri finds that Yuuri does not, in fact, get it.

“Quit following me!” Yuri snarls at him. They’re stopped by an outdoor ice rink, where he’d been watching a group of five-year-olds wobble unsteadily on the ice.

“I can’t!” Yuuri throws his hands up, placating. “I’m still technically assigned to you, so I still have to follow you, and—”

“Ugh, whatever, I don’t care,” Yuri cuts him off, leaning over the railing. He’s flexible enough that he can reach over and skim his fingers over the ice. Or, well, _through_ the ice, rather. It’s creepy and fascinating, and he does it again and again to see if anything changes.

(It doesn’t, of course. He’s dead.)

Yuuri watches him do so. “Were you a skater?”

Yuri lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I knew how to, yeah. But I didn’t compete or anything.”

“It looks fun.” Yuri is caught by the wistfulness in his voice, and turns his head to catch Yuuri watching a couple of teenagers spin each other around in circles.

“Yeah. It was.” In another life, Yuri would have loved to compete. It was something he showed promise in, some of his instructors used to say, but then Yuri had gotten sick, and—well. It’s not like the dead can skate, anyway. Softly, he confesses: “I miss it.”

Misses feeling the blades of his skates cutting through the ice, misses the rush of soaring through the air, misses the thrill of successfully landing a jump.

Misses being alive.

Yuuri says, “How’s your grandfather?”

Yuri runs a hand through his hair. “Quiet. Lonely.” He exhales sharply. “He’s always been. I don’t know. Quiet, like I said. Didn’t like to waste words. But now it’s like he’s lost the fight in him. And I hate that I made him that way.”

“He lost his grandson,” Yuuri murmurs. “Death can do that to you. I’ve seen it do awful, awful things to a lot of good people.”

Yuri blows out a breath. “Somebody told me, once. I can’t remember who. Maybe a teacher, or someone from school, but they said that the ones that are left behind have it a lot harder than the dead.” Yuri clenches his hands into fists, tight. “I didn’t get it until now.”

Yuuri is silent for a while. Yuri fixates on a small, red-headed girl in pigtails who skates figure-eights with the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

“Yuri,” Yuuri says. “Why don’t you want to go?”

Yuri laughs. “Why do you think? Does anybody ever actually _want_ to go with you?”

“Most do,” Yuuri says firmly, and Yuri turns to look at him. Yuuri’s eyes are warm and kind beneath his glasses. Glasses. Why did grim reapers even need glasses, anyway? “Most are ready to move on. Statistics show that seventy-eight percent of souls cross over as soon as the reaper makes first contact. Fifteen percent cross over after the funeral rites are performed.” He pauses. “Seven percent never do.”

Yuri sees the apple dangling, and snatches it. “What happens to them?”

“It’s not so much that something happens.” Yuuri frowns. “They just—fade. See, when you cross over, you’re given a ticket number. The ticket number designates how much time you have left before you are reborn. For some, it’s years. Centuries, even. For others, a matter of months. It’s all part of the design.  But for those who fade…” He shakes his head. “That’s it. There is no second chance. You literally fade into nothingness.”

Yuri thinks, _I’m already nothing_.

“Stop that,” Yuuri snaps, and Yuri blinks in surprise. “I can hear you thinking.”

Yuri bristles. “You can read my mind?”

“Not ordinarily,” says Yuuri, peevish. “But you were thinking it very loudly. And it’s a stupid thought, so stop it.”

Yuri lashes out, because that’s what he does. “You don’t know me.”

“No, but your grandfather wouldn’t be mourning and grieving over _nothing_ ,” says Yuuri harshly, and Yuri stumbles back.

Yuuri softens instantaneously. “Oh. No, I. That was insensitive. I’m sorry.”

Yuri is shaking. Shaking with anger, with fear, with so much emotion it’s hard to forget he’s no longer alive. “Shut up,” he hisses. “And get the _hell_ away from me.”

 

*

 

Some days pass before Yuri runs into Yuuri again, this time outside of a small grocery store where his grandfather regularly buys his vegetables. Grandpa seems immersed in selecting the best potatoes of the bunch, so Yuri lingers outside to talk to his own personal death guard, not that he _likes_ him or misses him or anything.

Yuuri is talking on a cell phone, a black clunky thing that Yuri’s only seen businessmen use. “No, but I truly think that I’m beginning to get through to him. If I could just request a few more days—” He falls abruptly silent, forehead creasing in thought. Yuri inches closer to hear better. “Fine. I understand, Minako- _sensei_.”

He hangs up, and turns around to pin Yuri with a tired gaze. “Hi.”

Yuri blinks. “You have a phone?”

“What?” Yuuri glances at his hand and hastily shoves the phone into his coat pocket, but not before Yuri catches the bright red logo emblazoned on the top of the phone, right by the antenna: NOKIAREAPER, it proudly proclaims. “Oh, yes. It’s for business.”

“Business,” Yuri says flatly, because apparently life and death is nothing more than a systematic bureaucracy.

“Yes.” Yuuri lets a heavy breath escape him, shoulders slumping. “They’re replacing me.”

“Replacing you?” Yuri echoes, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Yuuri gestures between the two of them. “I haven’t really been successful, have I? I’ve gone way beyond the deadline. I’ve been up all night filling out all the extra paperwork.”

“You need to sleep?”

“Of course I do,” replies Yuuri, offended.

“Okay, wait, go back to—replacing you? So, what, you’re not gonna hang around here anymore?”

“No, I’m going to be reassigned.” Yuuri bows, much like when Yuri first met him. “It was very nice to meet you, and I am sorry that I failed my task. My replacement should be here shortly, so—”

“What, so you’re just giving up on me?” The words burst out of Yuri before he can shove them back in and lock them up. “It’s only been, like, two days—”

“—it’s been three weeks—”

“—and you’re just going to fucking _leave_? Wow, how fucking dare you, first of all, like I’m just some homework assignment you can pass off to somebody else; second of all, I’m just going to chase off whoever the hell they’re going to send me next, so you can just tell them to—”

“Wow! Sounds fun!”

It is literally something straight of a horror movie, Yuri thinks, as he turns around and watches Yuuri’s replacement emerge from the fog in an impeccably cut camel trench coat. He, too, is wearing a stupid-looking hat. In seemingly slow motion, he glides over to where the two of them are standing. He crouches down to Yuri’s height to offer him a kind smile. It makes Yuri’s hackles rise, and he hisses at him in warning.

“Hello there, Yuri,” the newcomer says, still wearing that damnably polite smile. “So nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Viktor, and I will be your new grim reaper.”

Yuri stares at him for two seconds flat before turning back to Yuuri. “Nope,” he says. “He’s out, you’re staying.”

“That’s not exactly how it works,” Yuuri tries, but Yuri’s gotten _really_ good at this ghost-teleporting thing, and he gets the hell out of there while he can.

 

*

 

…only for Viktor to follow him.

“What the hell!” he snarls. “Yuuri never followed me when I disappeared like that!”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Viktor says, still unflappable. “Which is why he hasn’t succeeded.”

“You can’t make me go,” Yuri says, and his traitorous gaze lands on his grandfather, who’s making the slow trek back home with an armful of groceries. “S’what Yuuri said. ‘Freely and willingly.’ I’m not any of those things.”

“No, you aren’t,” Viktor agrees. “And you’re right. The soul has to cross over freely and willingly. And so we always have a few losses, typically within an acceptable margin. But I’m very, _very_ good at my job. I just wanted to let you know.”

Yuri knows he’s dealing with something different here. Viktor isn’t going to let him get away with half the shit Yuuri does. He shoves his hands into his pockets and sticks his chin out. “And I’m very, _very_ good at being a stubborn little shit.”

Viktor bursts into surprised laughter. “Yes,” he says fondly. “You certainly are.”

 

*

 

Yuuri is waiting for him outside of his house, looking pensive. His brow is furrowed in thought, and his glasses are slipping past the bridge of his nose. Yuri approaches him, irritated.

“What the hell is up with that guy?” he demands.

Yuuri scratches his head. “Well,” he begins, slowly, “that’s Viktor. He’s—kind of a superstar in our world. He’s fairly new, but he’s got the highest success rate of any grim reaper in all of history. He started breaking records his first year on the job.” He flushes, slightly. “I—I actually really look up to him.”

Yuri wants to gag. “Please stop.” He didn’t die to deal with grim reaper _crushes_ , of all things.

“He’s very nice,” Yuuri offers.

“Tch.” Yuri ignores that. “So—what. You’re just leaving, then?”

“As soon as I get reassigned.” Yuuri shrugs. “This is usually my jurisdiction, but they’ve been redrawing the lines, lately. And, if I’m being honest, I haven’t had much luck here. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start.”

Yuri—thinks. Yuri doesn’t have a lot of friends, but Yuuri has been something awfully close, and maybe he doesn’t quite want to lose that. Not that he’ll _miss_ him or anything, but he’s a lot easier to get along with than that damn Viktor, and—

“You’re thinking too loud again,” Yuuri says helpfully, and Yuri kicks him in the shins.

“Ouch,” Yuuri says mildly, rubbing at his leg. “You’re very violent for your size, you know.”

“Thank you.” Yuri preens, and Yuuri huffs out a laugh.

“What a lovely, heartwarming scene!” Viktor cries, manifesting suddenly in between them. He drapes his arms over both of their shoulders and tugs them closer. Yuri ducks underneath his arm and glares at him, unimpressed. Yuuri does no such thing, frozen to the spot, face bright red. Yuri didn’t think it was possible for grim reapers to blush. “I see you two have bonded quite nicely. I think this assignment will go tremendously well.”

“Wh—what assignment, Viktor?” Yuuri is still alarmingly red, and Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Oh, no, did I forget?” Viktor snaps his fingers, and an official looking document appears in front of the two reapers, floating before their eyes.

“Show-off,” Yuri mutters, before moving to peer over their shoulders. He frowns. “Wait. This is blank.”

“You can’t read it,” Yuuri says absently, “it’s only visible to reapers.” He heaves a heavy sigh. “Probation,” he murmurs, shoulders slumping. “I guess it’s not the worst thing in the world.”

“Of course not,” says Viktor cheerfully. “Really, I expected much worse. With such an abysmal success rate of only forty-two percent over the last year? Yuuri, they’re not very pleased with you.”

Yuuri hangs his head. “I know. I’m—I’m not very good at this. Sometimes I think of putting in a transfer request—”

“ _NO_ ,” both Viktor and Yuri say, and they both turn to face each other with equally startled glances. Viktor recovers first, damn him, and Yuri looks away, investigating a small crack on the sidewalk.

“What we both mean to say is,” begins Viktor smoothly, and Yuri whips around to pin him with a death glare, focusing solely on him as he screams  _YOU DON’T KNOW ME_ in his head and feeling no small measure of vindication when Viktor flinches, minutely, “is that you are an excellent reaper who’s perhaps hit a small slump. Which is why I am here! I have come to assist you in your probationary period, to be your coach, if you will, as we navigate these dark times and troubled waters together.” He drops to his knees suddenly, extending a graceful hand in Yuuri’s direction. “Will you allow me to do so?”

Yuri eyes a nearby tree and contemplates attempting to murder his ghost-self with one of the jagged branches.

“Oh, but you must be so busy,” Yuuri tries, still beet-red. “I can’t believe they would let you take the time to assist with—with a probation when you could be guiding souls over. You’re—”

“Exactly where I want to be,” Viktor assures him. “I think this will be a fun project, don’t you think?”

“NOT YOUR FUCKING PROJECT,” Yuri seethes, but largely goes unheard as Yuuri delicately places the tips of his fingers in Viktor’s outstretched hand. Viktor lights up like a damn Christmas tree as he stands up and takes a step into Yuuri’s personal space. Yuuri, damn him, lets him.

“Oh, I get it,” Yuri says to himself. “I’m in hell.”

It’s far worse than he could have ever imagined.

 

 

*

 

Maybe it’s a little creepy, but Yuri’s taken to watching his grandfather sleep. Not the whole night, obviously, because that would go far and beyond creepy, but just at the start, as his grandfather climbs into bed, closes his eyes, and his breaths even out. He stays until his quiet snores fill the room, and then escapes to—wherever.

Tonight, he finds himself at that same outdoor ice rink. It’s closed, now, and he easily walks through the gates to position himself in the middle of the ice. He takes small, careful steps so that he doesn’t simply slip through. Like this, it’s almost like he’s still corporeal, walking slowly on the ice.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Yuuri he’d never competed. But he’d left a lot of things out, too: the fact that he adored the ice, that when he said he’d missed it he did so with a tangible ache. His grandfather always wanted him to do more, and in another life—maybe. Maybe.

He narrows his focus on his feet, imagining that he’s wearing skates. Imagines the crunch of the ice beneath his feat as he glides across the ice. Slow, easy laps around the rink as he thinks of everything and nothing.

(What’s there to think about? He’s dead.)

He closes his eyes and pretends he’s at one of his lessons, his grandfather sitting in the audience. He tries to capture the feeling of his first successful jump, the way he’d sought his grandfather’s eyes in the stands and caught the barely-there grin on his face, filled with pride. Yuri wishes—wishes, and wishes—

He blanks out.

By the time he comes back to himself, he’s at the far end of the rink, arms outstretched towards the sky, breathing hard. Behind him, there’s a smattering of applause.

“Yuri, that was—” Yuuri’s mouth is open, and Yuri is too raw, too open to deal with him so he looks away. Beside him, Viktor’s gaze is impassive, indecipherable.

“Got it,” he says suddenly, lips turning up into a faint smile. “I think I understand you a little better now, _Yura._ ”

Yuri stiffens at the name, but refuses to give him the satisfaction of showing a more overt reaction. “You don’t know me,” he says, but it lacks the heat he knows he’s usually capable of.

“Of course not,” Viktor says, affable enough. “Some would say I don’t know much of anything at all.”

 

*

 

It happens not slowly, but like lightning and thunder: a crackle of light splits the sky, and then a resounding _boom_ breaks open the heavens.

“Where—” The house is unfamiliar, a small kitchen with peeling paint and a white telephone sitting innocuously on the counter. Framed pictures of a small blond boy and an older man with a severe countenance line the walls, but they don’t look familiar at all. He reaches for one, to run his fingers over the glass, but his hand passes solidly through.

“What—” His breathing is growing erratic, until he reaches the point that he’s not even breathing anymore, sinking to his knees as he realizes that _he’s not breathing anymore._ He stares at his hands, his thighs, his feet. They’re nearly transparent now, almost as if he’s fading away from the world. He’s shaking, and it’s cold, and there are black spots at the edges of his vision, and—

_"Yuri_.” Oh. There’s a man in front of him now, with scruffy black hair and glasses, and the ugliest hat he’s ever seen. “Yuri, _focus_.”

Yuri?

_Yuri._

“Your name is Yuri,” the man says. “You are sixteen years old. You are dead, but listen to me: _you are still here._ ” And he seizes his wrist in an ice-cold grip.

It’s like the first time he botched a landing on the ice: chilly and sharp and painful. “Fuck yeah I still am,” Yuri snarls, still shaking in Yuuri’s grasp. “And I’m gonna be for a long time.”

Yuuri lets out a long breath. His head is bowed down, blocking his face from view. “I’m counting on it,” he says.

“You can let go now,” Yuri mutters, but doesn’t move away.

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees, but doesn’t pull away either.

 

*

 

Viktor finds Yuuri outside of Yuri’s old house, watching the snow fall with a pensive expression on his face. A cursory glance through the window allows him to see that Yuri’s inside, staring at something on the wall. He steps closer. Yuri’s looking at old picture frames, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You were right,” Yuuri says quietly.

“I often am,” Viktor says, sitting next to him.

“We nearly lost him.” Yuuri sinks his head into his hands, pulling at the strands in frustration. Viktor wants to take his hands in his and smooth his hair back. Yuuri would look lovely with his hair slicked back, he thinks, though this look is adorable as well. “I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have been able to—if you hadn’t warned me—Viktor, I—”

“Hush,” Viktor says, and sets his hand carefully on Yuuri’s knee. “You pulled him back. Just as I knew you would.”

Viktor shifts closer. “Just as you did me,” he murmurs.

Yuuri places his hand gingerly on top of Viktor’s. Viktor thrills in the contact. “He’s running out of time,” Yuuri whispers, looking up. “He has to cross over soon. That’s what you said, right? That it only gets worse from here on out.”

Viktor doesn’t lie. “It does,” he admits. “But we won’t let him fade. Okay? I’ll be right here. He can’t out-stubborn both of us. You’ve let him grossly underestimate you, you know.”

Yuuri offers him a watery smile, which Viktor hoards and stores away for safe-keeping. “I did nothing,” he says, laughing quietly. “He assumed, all on his own.”

“A mistake he will sorely regret,” Viktor assures him.

“I’ve just—I’ve lost so many,” Yuuri says, burying his face once more into his hands. “Viktor—if we lose him, I’m done. I’m leaving. I’ll do something else, I’ll—”

Viktor wants to say so, so many things. _Please don’t leave,_ maybe. Or _stay here, don’t leave, I don’t know what I would do if I lost you just when I found you._

“We’ll talk about this later,” Viktor says, and Yuuri shakes his head furiously.

“No, I’m sure of it this time—”

Viktor’s hand, which never left Yuuri’s knee, squeezes. He leans against Yuuri, tips his head so that it’s resting against Yuuri’s shoulder. It’s a difficult angle; Yuuri is a bit shorter than him, but he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Later,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri relaxes against him. “Later, then,” he says.

 

*

 

Yuri senses rather than sees Viktor approach him. Not like it takes much; not a lot of people are in the business of seeking him out, lately.

“What do you want?” he asks flatly.

“Not much,” says Viktor amiably. “Just to people-watch with you.”

Yuri slouches forward in his seat on the park bench, watching the pigeons pick at sparse breadcrumbs on the sidewalk. “Not really watching people,” he mumbles.

“Pigeon-watch, then,” Viktor amends, settling in next to him.

Yuri doesn’t argue, content to watch his grandfather walk sedately around the perimeter of the park. When—When Yuri was alive, he used to nag at him to get out and exercise. Sometimes, he accompanied him. Nowadays, the space beside his grandfather looks terribly empty.

“You know about what happened to me,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I do.”

“I still—” Yuri clenches his hands into tight fists. “I still don’t want to go.”

“I know you don’t.” Viktor crosses his legs at his ankles. “And I don’t believe either of us have ever asked you why.”

“I’ve told you,” Yuuri says, exasperated, “I’m not leaving Grandpa—”

“Is that really it?” Viktor turns, and Yuri feels the weight of his gaze on the side of his face. Yuri determinedly refuses to meet his stare because if he’s honest with himself, he’s not entirely sure he’ll win that contest. “Yuri. Your grandfather loves you. He does. No one could ever deny that. But he’s moved on. He’s grieved and mourned in a healthy manner, and he has begun to build his life around the space you used to fill.”

In front of them, Yuri’s grandfather stoops to pat a young toddler on the head. Ivan, Yuri remembers belatedly, who’d turned three years old the week before Yuri died. Now that he thinks about it, his grandfather doesn’t cry as much anymore. No longer sits in Yuri’s old room for hours at a time, lost in old memories.

Viktor asks, “Don’t you think you owe it to him to do the same?”

“I’m only sixteen,” Yuri blurts out.

“Age never matters,” Viktor says.

“I know,” Yuri says. “I _know_ , but—”

“You don’t have much time left,” Viktor cuts in, not unkindly. “Fading away is a terrible thing to happen to anyone. It’s not as painless as it sounds.”

“How would you know?” Yuri tosses back carelessly. “You just bring them over and watch them—watch them be reborn, or whatever.”

Viktor is silent, face withdrawing into that cold, calculating countenance. It makes Yuri a little more—wary, forces him to remember that this isn’t just some goofball asshole trying to fulfill a quota for a desk job. That in some stories, grim reapers were more than messengers and retrievers of dead souls: that they were the gods of death themselves.

“At first, you don’t entirely believe what’s happening,” Viktor says lowly, and Yuri whirls around to face him, silent but greedy for every detail. “You think—ah, I’ve just been wandering too long. You forget what day it is, but you rationalize it to yourself. ‘Well, what use do I have for remembering the day now that I’m dead?’”

Viktor plays with the fringes of his scarf. “Next, you forget your name. You forget your reason for clinging so fiercely to this world. You forget the ones you left behind. You forget where you are. You forget _why_ you are. The stubborn ones, much like yourself, can sometimes fight it off. If you have a particularly dedicated reaper, as you do, they can pull you back.” Viktor’s eyes are glassy and far-away, and Yuri wraps his arms around himself, clutching tightly. “It’s all temporary, of course. The longer you put it off, the worse the end is.

“And the end is worse, I can promise you that. At the end, your sight leaves you. You can’t see, but you can hear. But then you start to hear stranger, crueler things. The deepest, darkest thoughts hidden in mortal hearts. They all have them, you know, no matter how well they bury them. Do you know why you start to hear them? Because the more you fade away as a soul, the closer you get to nothingness. And do you know what lurks in nothingness?”

Yuri shakes his head mutely.

“Every single dark thought that’s ever been cast aside. Humanity, ironically enough, is kinder than most give it credit for. A passing thought in a mortal’s head: ‘I hate him and I want to kill him.’ Perhaps it festers for a few minutes. A few hours. But for most, it doesn’t linger. Nothing becomes of it. But where does it go? It has to go _somewhere_. And so it does. To nothingness.

“And so you spend your last, conscious hours surrounded by foul thoughts. Foul thoughts that never came to fruition, at least not in the living world. But thoughts and intention have power, do they not? And when a fading soul appears in their midst, they leech onto it like a desperate, pathetic parasite. Until, eventually, you become part of it, too. Nothingness.”

Yuri is shaking. “Yuuri never—”

“Of course he wouldn’t have,” Viktor cuts in smoothly. “He wouldn’t know, would he?”

Yuri watches him warily. “And how do you know?”

Viktor barks out a harsh laugh, bitter as the Moscow winter. “What is it you’re so fond of saying?” He tips his hat forward, obscuring his eyes. “Ah, yes. ‘You don’t know me.’” His grin is jagged, made to cut. “If you stick around, maybe you’ll learn a thing or two, Yura.”

 

*

 

Viktor is awfully handsy around Yuuri, and while Yuuri initially reacted with sputters and embarrassed flushes, he seems to have resigned himself to his fate. Viktor constantly finds reasons to touch him: to straighten his tie (which is always, always crooked), to adjust his glasses, to grab him by the hand and tug him along the bustling streets of Moscow.

“We should show Yura what it is we do,” Viktor suggests, beaming, and Yuuri is clearly enthralled by the sight of the sun shining out of his mouth. Yuri wonders if he’s seen the darker side of Viktor, the one who talks about nothingness as though he’s lived through it all. Probably not, he decides. Yuuri doesn’t seem like he’d know what to do with such a thing.

“You want me to watch you ferry dead people over,” Yuri says flatly.

“We don’t _ferry_ people,” Yuuri corrects him. “Although they do, in some parts of the world. Here, it’s just a matter of having a drink and taking your ticket.”

“A drink,” Yuri repeats, unimpressed.

“Vodka, usually,” Viktor adds with a thumbs-up.

“In Japan, it’s usually tea,” Yuuri says. “Speaking of—oh! Let’s go in here.” His hand, which has somehow wound up tucked through Viktor’s arm, squeezes at his elbow. Yuri glances at the storefront dubiously. It’s a small Japanese restaurant he remembers passing by every now and then, although he’d never ventured inside to try anything.

“How are you two even going to—” he trails off as the two reapers smoothly take off their hats and greet their waiter. They’re suddenly far more solid than they’d been two seconds prior, and Yuri is inexplicably irritated by the fact that they’d never seen fit to share this piece of information with him.

After they place their orders, Yuri hisses at them both. “You can—appear? To the living?”

“Sure we can,” Yuuri says cheerfully. “As long as we wear our hats, we’re completely invisible, but if we take them off, we’re as corporeal as any mortal.”

“Why?” Yuri asks, just as the waiter delivers their drinks. Warm tea, for the both of them.

“Sometimes we need to, to get the job done,” Yuuri says vaguely, and Viktor nods in agreement, pulling out a small stack of blank cards.

“We’ve got four today,” Viktor says, spreading the cards across the table. Yuri squints to read them, but the cards remain invisible to non-reaper eyes. “Of course, I’m mainly supposed to supervise you and not intervene unless I deem absolutely necessary.”

Yuuri nods. “Got it,” he says, and Yuri wonders if he really does have it, because based on what he’s seen, Yuuri doesn’t exactly have the best track record. He himself is a perfect example.

“Two katsudon _,_ ” the waiter proclaims, setting two identical steaming bowls of pork cutlet and rice in front of them. Although Yuri can’t exactly get hungry anymore, he can’t deny that they look damn delicious.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Yuuri warns as Viktor begins to dig into his bowl with enthusiasm. Viktor lights up as he chews and swallows his first spoonful.

“Yuuri, it’s delicious!” he raves, and if Yuri stares long enough he swears Viktor’s mouth looks like it’s gone heart-shaped. It’s entirely disgusting, and really, he did _not_ die to be subjected to this sort of nonsense.

“Isn’t it?” Yuuri agrees heartily. “It’s not quite the same as home, but—”

“Home?” Yuri interjects before Viktor can wax poetic about the way Yuuri handles chopsticks so gracefully because he has a sixth sense for these sorts of things now. “You mean, what, you have a—a family and all that?”

“Not in the sense that you’re thinking,” Yuuri says, chewing on a piece of pork. “Home, as in, where I was before I became a reaper. When I was still alive,” he clarifies.

Recognizing the confusion on Yuri’s face, Viktor begins to explain. “We were all humans, once. A select few are chosen to become reapers after they cross over. It’s supposed to be an honor.”

“An honor,” Yuri says dubiously. “Is it?”

“Sure,” Viktor says easily, and Yuuri smiles at him, sad. Yuri doesn’t know what to make of that, so he turns away and looks out the window, ignoring the sounds of cutlery against ceramic, watching the snow fall once again.

 

*

 

When they finish, Yuri follows them to the playground, where a group of school-aged children are throwing a bright blue ball around. Simpler times, he thinks.

“Wait,” he says, suddenly alarmed. “Is this—”

“Shh,” is all Viktor says, brow furrowed in concentration. He is, Yuri realizes, holding Yuuri’s hat.

The ball flies in an overriding arch and comes to a slow stop at Yuuri’s feet. Yuuri, who’s about three feet away from them, picks it up and crouches down to meet the little girl who’s run up to meet him.

“Sorry, mister,” she says, grinning up at him. From this angle, Yuri can see that she’s lost her two front teeth.

“S’okay,” Yuuri says, handing her the ball. “But be careful, okay?”

“’kay!” she chirps, running back to her friends.

Yuri watches her go with a foreboding feeling. “She’s not going to be careful, is she?”

Viktor says nothing.

It happens quickly, as these things often do. Yuri’s seen the news: “It happened so fast,” bystanders always say, shaken, and Yuri realizes they’re not just making that up.

This time, the ball rolls into the street.

The little girl chases after it.

She never sees the car coming.

“Mister?” she says, lip quivering, when Yuuri comes to get her. She’s floating hazily above her body, and she slowly turns to look back. Yuuri grasps her chin, ever so gently.

“Don’t look,” he murmurs. “Will you come with me, Katya?”

She takes his hand. “Are we going to see Mommy?”

Yuuri gives her a smile, a kind and brittle thing. “Yes,” he says, soft. “I know you’ve missed her for a long time.”

“I sure have,” Katya declares, and Yuri watches as the two of them disappear into the light.

“He’s great with children,” Viktor says quietly. “He’s—He’s wonderful, really.”

But Yuri is thrumming with rage. “You could have stopped it,” he whispers. “Either of you. You could have—have caught the ball again, or stopped her from running into the street—you could have—”

_Restarted my heart,_ he doesn’t say, _found a magical cure, or—_

“It’s not our place to interfere,” Viktor says, uncharacteristically gentle with him, which infuriates Yuri even more.

“She could still be alive!” he yells at him. “ _I_ could still be—” he breaks off, and Viktor looks at him with something akin to pity.

“Yura,” he tries.

“Shut _up_ ,” Yuri snarls, and vanishes.

 

*

 

His grandfather is at his grave, sweeping away cobwebs and dust. He’s laid a bouquet of yellow daisies in front of his tombstone, and Yuri idly runs his ghost-fingers through them.

“Are you doing well, Yurochka?” he asks, settling himself down on the grass.

“Could be better,” Yuri mutters, scowling.

“I still miss you every day,” his grandfather continues. “In the mornings, sometimes I go to your room to wake you up because you’ve probably slept through your alarm… but then I remember that I don’t need to do that anymore.”

Yuri starts fiddling with his jacket sleeve, pulling it up and over his hand and then back down to his wrist.

“Sometimes, when I make pirozhki _,_ I make enough for two, even though it’s only me now.”

Yuri swallows.

“I miss you most when I pass by the ice rink,” his grandfather says, looking wistful. “Yurochka, the next time, I hope you get to skate. You loved it so much, even at the end.”

“Stop,” Yuri hisses, hands shaking even as he balls them into tight fists. “I don’t—I don’t care about any of that—”

“If I could, I would have traded places with you a hundred times over,” his grandfather murmurs, reaching out to trace the letters of Yuri’s name on the tombstone.

“I said, _stop_!” Yuri stands up, his head buzzing with anger. “I don’t—I have no regrets! I’m fine! I lived my life, whatever, it’s done, the only reason I haven’t moved on is—is—”

“But you’re doing well, right?” his grandfather asks, staring up at the sky.

Yuri falters. Swallows, hard, staring at his grandfather’s upturned face.

“Is it okay, then?” he asks, quiet. “Is it okay for me to go?”

Grandpa sighs, straightening and patting Yuri’s tombstone gently. “Be well, Yurochka,” he says. “Be well.”

 

*

 

“I want the rest of the story,” Yuri demands, crossing his arms over his chest and levering Viktor with an imperious stare. Beside him, Yuuri is asleep, his head in Viktor’s lap.

Viktor plays with the strands of Yuuri’s hair, gentle but almost proprietary. “I think you know what happened next,” he counters.

“You said all reapers were human once,” Yuri says. “So he was one.” He jerks his head towards Yuuri. “And so were you. And you… faded. Almost.” He frowns. “The story you were telling me. Was _yours_.”

Viktor inclines his head, ever so slightly.

“But you’re here now, meaning that you escaped it, somehow.” Yuri furrows his brow. “If you were that far gone, how the hell did you manage to get out? It sounds—” He grimaces. “Impossible.”

To his surprise, Viktor laughs, quietly. “Yes,” he says, gazing down at the sleeping man in his lap. “It should have been.”

Yuri follows his stare. “No—no way,” he breathes, uncertain.

“Did you know that grim reapers share their energy with the souls that they are assigned to?” Viktor asks conversationally. “And that the longer the soul refuses to cross over, the more energy that soul saps away from their assigned reaper?”

Yuri stares at Yuuri’s sleeping figure with dawning horror.

“And that the bond remains in place until either the soul crosses over, the soul fades, or the reaper submits the necessary paperwork acknowledging the loss of the soul?” Viktor is still smiling pleasantly at him. “Silly me, what am I saying? Of course you didn’t know. _I_ didn’t.”

Yuri finds his voice.” Is he—is he gonna be okay?”

But Viktor continues as though he hadn’t heard him. “Most reapers would give up after a week, or perhaps two. Most reapers physically can’t handle the drain on their energy reserves. It takes a lot of energy for the soul to remain here among the living, you know. But this fool—this endearing, absolute fool—isn’t most reapers.” He lets out a sigh. “I ran for nearly a year,” he admits.

Yuri thinks of the way Yuuri had followed him around quietly, asking after his grandfather, clapping enthusiastically after his impromptu performance on the ice. Thinks of the way he’d grabbed onto him so fiercely after that first almost-fade, the way he’d held onto his wrist for hours afterwards.

“He pulled me out of it, like he did you.” Viktor stares down at Yuuri with such affection that Yuri has to look away. “I remember thinking, ‘oh, okay, this is how it ends, then.’ But he came out of nowhere, and he looked so furious, it was breathtaking.” Viktor traces the arch of Yuuri’s eyebrows with a gloved hand. “He looked like an avenging angel.”

Yuuri snorts, indelicately. Viktor’s smile widens. Yuri can’t turn away.

“You are the worst,” Yuuri informs Viktor. “Yuri, don’t listen to him.” Yuri notices he doesn’t move from his position, head still firmly on Viktor’s lap. When did this happen, he wonders, and how did he miss it?

Or—had they always been this way, and he’d simply never bothered to see it?

“We’ll go when you’re ready,” Yuuri says. “I won’t let you fade away.”

Viktor stares at him like some lovesick fool. Yuri snorts, and turns his nose up at both of them.

“You’re both idiots,” he says, though it lacks its usual heat. Judging by the way Viktor and Yuuri smile at him, they notice. He spins on his heel, facing away from them. “Tomorrow,” he says, soft but firm. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Yuuri says gently. “We’ll be here.”

 

*

 

Yuri spends his last day following his grandfather around as he does his regular chores. He watches fondly as Grandpa wanders through the farmer’s market, haggling over the prices of potatoes and corn. He follows him as he chats with their neighbors about inconsequential things. He follows him as he returns to their small home and sets up shop in the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients to make pirozhki.

Grandpa looks good, Yuri decides, watching him measure out flour and sugar in a large, well-used bowl. Making the dough used to be his job. Grandpa works slowly, methodically. It doesn’t hurt to watch him all alone anymore, he realizes, and Grandpa’s shoulders are a little lighter, today. Maybe they’ve been growing lighter for a while.

Once the pirozhki are in the oven, Grandpa turns on the radio and sits down in his old rocking chair. Yuri can’t remember how many afternoons they passed like this, Grandpa in his chair, smoking his pipe, Yuri on the floor beside him, reading comics or playing on his secondhand Nintendo 64. He’d always thought he’d have so many more. Most people probably did.

The oven dings, and Grandpa takes the pirozhki out of the oven. He retrieves a large bowl of leftover borscht from the fridge and heats that up as he waits for the pirozhki to cool down. Yuri is content to watch him eat his simple dinner. In the background, the radio is still playing. It’s the station Grandpa favors, the one that plays old classical music. Yuri used to scoff and roll his eyes, but secretly enjoyed the songs.

Grandpa finishes his dinner, then gets up to wash the dishes. He hums along with a violin piece as he rinses out the plates. He’s still humming as he makes his way to the bathroom to wash up. Beneath the dim lighting, he painstakingly trims his beard. Yuri watches him, and rubs ruefully at his own smooth jaw. Grandpa used to tell him that he looked forward to the day he would teach Yuri how to shave, but—well.

Dressed for bed, he settles into his rocking chair once again and turns on the television. The late-night news is on, and Yuri watches Grandpa cluck his tongue at the latest happenings around the world. Grandpa always had commentary for every little thing, he thinks, and people so often wondered where he got his sharp tongue.

Finally, Grandpa stands up and turns the television off. He walks into his bedroom, picks up a framed picture from his bedside table. It was taken a year ago: Yuri and he, smiling at the camera. He taps Yuri’s face fondly before setting it back down. He turns down his bed, fluffs his pillows, and slips beneath the heavy blankets. Yuri watches him, trying to unstick the words in his throat.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, as his grandfather’s eyes shut and he begins to drift off into sleep. “For—everything. I wasn’t the easiest, I know. But you were the best.” He scrubs at his eyes furiously. “I’m—I’m going now.”

His grandfather shifts in bed, letting out a low snore.

“I’m going now,” he repeats, thickly. “But you—you don’t get to go any time soon, you hear? You’d better stick around for ten—twenty years, at least!”

His grandfather sleeps on.

Yuri lets a hand hover above his head.

“Bye, Grandpa,” he whispers, and goes to the ice rink.

 

*

 

Yuuri and Viktor are waiting for him. Now that he knows to look for it, Yuuri does look a little haggard around the edges. Viktor looks impeccable as always, and raises a hand at Yuri’s appearance.

“Ready?” Yuuri asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri mutters, shuffling slowly towards them. “What’re you gonna do after this? Are you still on probation?”

“Funnily enough,” Yuuri says, “you’re my last case. As soon as I send you off successfully, I’m off probation. I had to send one-hundred souls, you see.”

“One-hundred, huh.” Yuri jams his hands further into his jacket pockets. “That didn’t take too long, did it?”

“Yuri,” says Yuuri, ever so gently, “it’s been three months.”

Yuri blinks. “Oh.” He breathes out, a little unsteady. “Been—been long enough, I guess.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Yuuri says, holding out a hand. “It won’t hurt. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Yuri grabs his hand. Before he can think about it too deeply, he reaches behind him and seizes Viktor’s hand as well. He’s not shaking. He’s not. That would imply that he’s nervous, or scared, which. He’s not.

“Yuri—” Yuuri begins, but Yuri cuts him off.

“Well? Let’s go already,” Yuri snaps, and the last thing he remembers before the light envelops him is the sight of Yuuri’s amused smile and the sound of Viktor’s quiet laugh.

 

*

 

Apparently, the first stop in the afterlife is a tea house.

“Have a seat,” Yuuri says, once Yuri has let go of his and Viktor’s hands.

He takes his glasses off, pushes his bangs so they’re not constantly falling into his eyes. He retrieves a tea set from behind a mahogany counter and begins to prepare the tea. Yuri watches him, drawn for once into contemplative silence. The tea Yuuri brews is made of a fine, bright green powder.  

“I thought I would get vodka,” Yuri says, looking at Viktor.

Viktor tilts his head to study him briefly before pushing off the wall he was leaning against to rummage through the cabinets behind Yuuri.

“Third shelf, the one on the right,” Yuuri says helpfully, and Viktor hums his gratitude.

They finish preparing their respective drinks at the same time. Yuuri sets down a dark, ceramic cup, vibrant green tea swirling gently within its depths. Viktor slides forward a plain shot glass, filled with vodka.

“As you’ve probably noticed, we take the concept of free will quite seriously around here,” Yuuri begins, as Yuri studies both drinks with a furrowed brow. “And so we offer you a final choice: one drink allows you to remember, and the other allows you to forget.”

“Forget?” Yuri echoes.

“Everything,” Yuuri says. “The life you lived. The events that occurred after your death. Most people instinctively yearn to remember, but that holds its own dangers. It can often be too much. The body isn’t made to hold two sets of memories, you see. The newer set of memories typically overpowers the old, though not without a great deal of pain and struggle.” He taps the shot glass of vodka. “Once they hear that, many choose to forget.”

Yuri stares at both drinks, going back and forth.

“You remembered what happened after you died,” Yuri says to Viktor, accusing.

“I did,” Viktor concurs. “But, ah—as it is, you’re not the only one that’s extraordinarily good at being a _stubborn little shit_.”

Yuri almost, but not quite, cracks a smile.

“I want my ticket first,” he demands, and Yuuri huffs out an exasperated laugh. He pulls out an odd-looking contraption, made of a hodge-podge of gears and screws, clinking noisily as it’s set on the counter between the two drinks.

“Pull this lever here,” Yuuri instructs, and Yuri does so. A small, white ticket emerges from the top of the machine. In dark, bolded letters, it says: **2001.**

“That’s the year you’ll be reborn,” Yuuri says, and Yuri is startled by how soon the date is. Barely three years from today.

“That’s—soon,” Yuri manages, still staring at the ticket. Yuuri rips it from the machine and hands it to him. Yuri closes his hands around it, crumpling it into a ball. He shoves it into his pocket, returning his attention to the drinks in front of him.

“Have you chosen?” Yuuri asks. Beside him, Viktor watches carefully, expression inscrutable.

“Yeah,” Yuri says, grabbing one of the drinks and downing it in one gulp. He smirks, setting the empty container down with a loud clatter. “Delicious.”

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

It is 2016, and Yuri Plisetsky is on top of the world.

The gold medal crowning him as a Grand Prix Final champion is heavy around his neck, but it’s a weight that he welcomes. The silver medalist, Otabek Altin, nods at him in acknowledgment once the pictures are taken, flashing him a brief thumbs up. Yuri blinks at him, startled, before returning the gesture.

When everything is over and he’s back in the privacy of his hotel room, he calls his grandfather. “ _Congratulations,_ ” he says, and Yuri laughs warmly at the sound of his gruff voice in his ear. _“I’ll bring you your favorite when I pick you up from the airport. On Sunday, isn’t it?”_

“You don’t have to pick me up,” Yuri argues, knowing that he’s suffering from a particularly bad cold this winter. His grandfather has always been a frail and slight man, barely taller than Yuri himself. “I can get home myself.”

“Listen to your elders, boy,” his grandfather croaks, and Yuri rolls his eyes. 

“ _Fine._ See you Sunday,” he concedes, before hanging up.

They have a free day before their flight back, and it’s his first time in Marseilles, so Yuri decides to make the most of it, having been too busy practicing to go out and take in the sights beforehand. He could go out with the rest of the Russian team, but he wants a quiet evening to himself, tonight, so he makes his excuses and sneaks out of the hotel before Mila notices.

He takes the requisite selfies at all the tourist traps, breathing in the smell of the sea as he ambles lazily through the Old Port. He wanders until his stomach grumbles, and his eyes glance over the numerous restaurants he passes on the streets. He’s not really in the mood for any of it, and resigns himself to trekking back to the hotel to order room service when he sees it.

A small restaurant, tucked away in a back corner, Japanese lettering decorating the sign hanging overhead the front door. But that’s not what catches his attention. His eyes are inexplicably drawn to the window, which happens to provide a perfect view of two men sitting, waiting. Two men, dressed in black suits. Two hats, sitting innocuously on the table.

(The splash of Japanese green tea hitting the back of his throat, bright yet bitter.)

Yuri runs.

“Table for one?” an employee inquires when he bursts in through the door.

Yuri shakes his head, pointing towards the table by the window. “No,” he says, grinning fiercely. “I’m with them.”

 

**FIN**

 

**Author's Note:**

> -as a note, elements of the fic were taken from the kdrama [goblin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guardian:_The_Lonely_and_Great_God). it's obviously not a straight-up retelling, or even a straight-up au, but the grim reapers in this fic were based off the grim reapers in the drama.
> 
> -title from the soundtrack of miyazaki's [howl's moving castle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMGetv40FkI)
> 
> !! thank you to [@sonatine](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/) for being such a great beta and for holding my hand and being patient with me when i would send messages going BUT WHAT IF WE DID THIS INSTEAD AND ????!!?!
> 
> and thank you to [@tourloos](http://tourloos.tumblr.com/) for the amazing wonderful art i can't stop staring at it and smiling? i also actually want all of their clothes, please and thank you.
> 
> -thank you for reading! [come say hi on tumblr](https://fireblazie.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] the merry-go-round of life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090069) by [utlaginn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/utlaginn/pseuds/utlaginn)




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